White Collar: Portrait of Young Artist
by Ruahnna
Summary: Art sometimes reveals as much as it conceals.


**Title:** Portrait of a Young Artist

**Rating: **G

**Genre/Relationship: **Schmoop, Neal, Peter

**Spoilers:** None

**Word Count:** 3088

**Summary:** For the prompt: _too cool for school_ in **run_the_con** lightning round Art sometimes reveals as much as it conceals.

"Danny—are you even listening to me?"

Under that shock of dark hair were a pair of penetrating blue eyes, eyes that saw everything, watched everything. She had seen him in class, looking almost _hungrily_ at the blank canvas, seen his hands itching to hold the pencils, the brush, the palette. He could barely make it through the warm-up most days, barely contain himself until the rest of the loud, noisy class had filtered in and spread themselves among the tables, joking, jostling, delaying till the last minute when the bell rang, signaling the start of class.

Not Danny.

Unlike the others, many of whom had simply picked the easiest-looking elective they could find, Danny _wanted_ to be in art class. He finished his assignments at lightning speed, and while it went against her usual class policy, she usually gave in and let him start another project, which he also finished before the others had finished their first. Despite the speed at which he worked, the ferocity of his approach to each new piece, she had never seen hands so sure, so certain. It was as though each line, each draft, was preordained but hidden, only coming to view as his brush touched the canvas.

Many of her students were far from ready to use oils. She had put him off with acrylics at first, encouraged him to use everything in the classroom, but in the end…well, in the end, it had been impossible to withhold her own supplies. When those were gone, she'd bought him his own.

She hadn't wrapped the box—it wouldn't be appropriate. In fact, she managed to convey it in as offhand a manner as possible. _A sample_, she'd said. _A possible supplier had donated_…. He hadn't believed her—of course—though she had hardly expected him to. He had swallowed once, twice, his jaw clenched in misery, and handed the box back to her.

"I…can't," he said. "These are…it's too much. _You_ should use them."

"Danny, I already _have_ a set," she'd argued. "I don't need them."

At this, he had grinned, those blue eyes shining from under bangs too long for stylish, too short to tie back into a ponytail when he worked. "I've _used_ most of _your_ set," he said. "Ms. Denslow, I—I can't take these."

"I wish you would." She tried to keep her tone light, casual.

"I…it isn't…. They're too expensive." He ran his hand lovingly down the cellophane on the front of the box. "_You_ should use them."

"Danny, look at me for a minute."

Those startling blue eyes met hers, then darted away. She waited, and they came back at last to hold her gaze, or be held in it.

"Danny, I've been teaching art classes a long time. I was teaching art before you were born, and I suppose I'll be teaching art until I retire or die of paint fumes." Here, she smiled, and he smiled back at her, not sure if he ought to grin at her little joke. "I don't get many students who love art the way I do. The way _you_ do."

"But—"

"Won't you let me make it a gift? I'm sure you have a birthday _sometime_ this year."

Again, he peeked at her, wondering if she was _trying_ to be funny or just _was_. He opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his head. "I can't," he said. "My mom…." He did not finish the thought.

She frowned, frustrated, then sighed. "Okay," she said, becoming businesslike. "If you won't let me make it a gift, how about you let me make an investment?"

The blue eyes flashed at her, wary but interested. She knew he played pool for money after school, knew he hustled on the weekends. St. Louis was hardly Podunk, but it was small enough that word got around. She wondered again about his mother. What kind of adult would let him pool shark with adults but not let him accept school supplies from a teacher?

"What kind of investment?" he asked. His voice was husky, soft—belying the tough-guy exterior he wore like an armor.

"I'd like to invest in your talent," she said.

"My talent? What…?"

"Danny, I've spent my life teaching students—children _and_ adults—about art. It's my favorite thing in the whole world, the best thing I'll ever do. Every year, every class, I hope that someone—_anyone—_will catch the same feeling, want to share art like I do."

He looked at her uncertainly, his hands tightening unconsciously on the box of paints. "Does…_do_ people? I mean, students?"

Her smile was broad, her expression keen. "Yes. Sometimes. Several of my students teach art, a few of them work in art-related fields. I have a student who is a real live starving artist in Connecticut. You can do that, you know."

"Starve?" said Danny, surprised by his own joke. They stared at each other for a moment, then laughed, and it was okay. It was easy between them again.

"Let's hope not," she said gently. "Please, Danny—take the paints. I can't wait to see what you can do with them. But I'm pretty sure you won't starve."

"No ma'am," said Danny. He clutched the box to his chest as though afraid it might be taken from him, pausing uncertainly at the door.

"Would you like me to hold those for you until after school? You can come by and get them after your last bell if you like."

Relief flooded his face, making him look more like a big boy than a young man. "Yes, I— Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome." She took the box and busied herself with some brushes that didn't need cleaning as he walked to the door.

He stopped, turned back. "I—thank you Ms. Denslow."

"I'll see you after school." She did not look up, waiting until he was gone. When the door had closed behind him, she went at once to her messy desk and took out a tissue, then another. _Paint fumes_, she told herself. _It must be the paint fumes._

"Danny, it's a wonderful piece. I'd _love_ to enter it in the contest. The first prize is a scholarship to an art camp this summer. Students who attend have a leg up when they apply to art school in the—"

"I'm going to the Police Academy," Danny said. He would not look at her, would not risk their eyes meeting. She was baffled by this sudden change, this reluctance to display his art. When she'd suggested entering the portrait in the contest, his first dismissal had been shy, modest. She assumed he'd overcome it—or she would. Despite his ability, he was self-effacing, always critical of the final product, never quite satisfied. But as the deadline for the contest drew closer, and the portrait neared completion, he _hadn't_ given in, hadn't given way.

"Well, even if you do, I wish you let your art represent the school. I'm sure your mother—"

"She doesn't," he said shortly. "She doesn't care about the portrait."

"Not even if—"

"Not even _if_," he said with finality. There was such bitterness in his voice that it took her by surprise.

Ms. Denslow studied the painting, looking from the small photograph on the easel to the larger portrait beside it, mesmerized by the clarity, the emotion he'd brought to the painting. The woman in the portrait was smiling, looking to the side as though surprised by something, almost laughing in her delight. She had wondered about the woman, wondered about the photo, but Danny had always taken it with him and brought it back, not willing to trust it to her care—or perhaps to the whims of his classmates. Once, when he had stepped to the sink to wash his hands, she'd looked at the original, surprised to find that, instead of a photograph, it was actually _part_ of a photograph. The woman in the picture was obviously standing next to someone, smiling at that someone who was no longer in the picture. No longer in the picture…oh. _Oh_.

"Danny, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's not _that_!" the young man cried. He seemed stung by her sympathy, scalded by the compassion in her gaze. "She just…doesn't want me to," Danny muttered. There was such an ache in his voice that she did not know what to say at first.

"Then…then you should do what you mother wants," she said. "I'm sure she has her reasons."

"I'm sure she does," Danny gritted, then slipped her claim on his talent and started down the hall.

She let it drop. Mostly. Danny finished the painting and she didn't bring it up again. The competition closed and she didn't bring it up again. When they sent her a message, asking her if there were any final entries, she didn't bring it up again. It was Danny, actually, who brought it up again.

"That picture," he said, hovering outside her door one morning. "I wanted to know if I could…that is, when can I…um, you know, have the picture." He pushed his hair out of his eyes. "To take home."

"Students can take their artwork home after the end of May," she said, smiling at him. "You have quite a lot of things to take." She hesitated, not sure if she should venture into uncomfortable territory. "Danny—do you have a portfolio?"

"No." Incredulity softened the bluntness of his reply. "I'm going to the police academy, so I haven't—"

"Yes," she said briskly. "I remembered you said that. I meant—do you have a portfolio to put your art _in_?"

"Oh." He looked surprised. While she had never pushed, the topic of his continuing education in art had become a sensitive point with Danny. She'd seen him withdraw when others praised his work, although he still looked as hungrily at the canvas, seemed as driven as he had always been. He shook his head.

"Would you _like_ one?" she asked. Before he could protest, she hauled it in front of her. It was not new—not by any stretch, but it was sturdy.

"You don't want it?" Danny asked, cautious now. She could see his eyes light up with interest, even through the shag of bangs. Why didn't his mother insist he get a proper haircut?

"I don't. I already have one. I was going to donate it someplace—it's taking up space in my art room that I could use for other things." This was true. The walls of her art room were lined six-deep in places, canvases and prints crowding the work space.

Danny looked at it, wanting it, but dared a look at her face to see if she was sincere. She smiled—her professional smile, warm but not threatening too much intimacy. He took it, started to head for the door, then came back and leaned against the wall. "Thank you, Ms. Denslow."

"You're welcome, Danny. Thank _you_ for taking it out of my way. Artists like us—"

She heard his quick intake of breath but he did not protest.

"—our work tends to pile up." She turned away, breaking the contact before he felt obliged to protest. "You're welcome to leave it here until after school."

"It's kind of big," Danny mumbled, but he grinned when he said it, blue eyes flashing. This conjured up her real smile, the one she _liked_ to use.

"It's designed to hold big ideas," she said, and watched him out the door.

Danny pushed open the door and walked in, but froze when he saw another teacher in her room.

"It is amazing," said Mr. Cipalla, leaning close to look at the detail on the eyes. The lashes were perfect, swept low over the subject's cheeks. "I can't believe how much it looks like her."

"Oh—you've met her?" said Ms. Denslow.

Coach Cipalla looked up, surprised. "Yeah—when she came with him for his sports physical. Haven't _you_ met her?"

"No," said Ms. Denslow. "And I have to say I'm a little surprised. He's so talented. It's hard to believe she doesn't—oh. Hello, Danny." There was no guilty start, no awkwardness—they hadn't been talking about anything secretive—and her smile was welcoming. "Coach Cipalla was just admiring your handiwork here. He says it's a picture of your mother."

But Danny's face had blanched white and he backed away, looking ill. "I—I have to go now—" He turned and fled the room. The two teachers looked at each other, eyebrows climbing.

"I don't know," said Coach Cipalla. "He doesn't talk much about his family. I know his father's deceased."

"Yes. I knew that." She frowned, debating what to say. "Did you know he's planning to join the police academy after graduation?"

"Yes," said the coach. "He mentioned it. Even asked me to time him on his running."

While she was glad to have it confirmed, it nevertheless disappointed her. So he was really planning to join law enforcement and not pursue his art education. Well, art was not an exclusive mistress—just an _exacting_ one. Maybe he would continue to paint, to draw, even if he plied his trade in some other field. Still…law enforcement. He was such a faithful student of what he saw…. She worried about what he might see, working as a policeman. Well, nothing she could do except keep the door open, encourage him, hope for the best.

The painting disappeared that night from its easel in the art room. There was no sign of a break-in, nothing else was taken. Danny himself shrugged it off and, despite her own inclination, she did not report the theft. When she told him she wouldn't if he didn't want her to, he looked relieved.

"Thanks, Ms. Denslow," he said, but he never said what for.

"Danny—this is so beautiful," said his mother. She reached out and ran a hand through his hair, touched his cheek, which was still bristled more with peach fuzz than stubble. "You did this in art class? I didn't realize you were taking art this semester."

"This year," said Danny, but there was no rebuke in it. He stirred, started to speak, but stopped.

"What?" she asked, smiling vaguely. "What's wrong, baby?"

"Ms.—they wanted to enter it into a contest," he said.

"Oh, Danny—you _didn't_—did you?" she said, suddenly anxious. "You know they said we can't—" Her hands moved to his shoulders, wanting something to hold on to.

"I know," said Danny. He pulled her hands away, but gently. "I didn't."

She watched him move away, realizing his joy in the moment was gone. "Danny?"

"It's okay, Mom. I _know_. No one saw it but other students and my teacher."

"It's just we can't—"

"I _know_, Mom. I _know_."

"I was as surprised as anyone," said Coach Cipalla. "There wasn't anything that I knew about. Anything happen that you know about?"

"He turned 18," said Ms. Denslow. She wondered about that birthday, about the significance of becoming an adult in the eyes of the law. The eyes of the law…. "Here's a dumb question. I'm pretty sure I know, but—don't you have to have a high school diploma to join the police academy?"

Coach Cipalla nodded. "Or a GED." He looked at her, then his eyebrows climbed. "Oh. Oh, _right_. So this was a change of plans, wasn't it?"

Ms. Denslow hesitated, not wanting to pry. "Was there a particular girl that you knew of?"

Here, the coach laughed. "Plenty of girls, but no particular one. He didn't go to prom."

She was partially relieved, but not much. "I wish I knew what happened." She smiled at her longtime colleague. "I always worry about the ones that get away."

But the coach was more sanguine about it, inured, perhaps, from a lifetime of wins and losses in one arena or another. "Brooks? I wouldn't worry too much about him. Wherever he goes, whatever he does, he'll be successful at it."

She smiled, not really doubting but worried. Eighteen was so young, so _young_ to face the real world, but then, Danny seemed to have been facing the real world for some time now. "I'm sure you're right."

She found the sketch when she closed out her classroom for the year, throwing away the things that she would recreate with new classes and putting away the things she'd use again next year. It was a little thing, barely 3 x 5, but it was quite remarkable even so. It was a sketch of her, standing at her easel, paintbrush in hand. Though her face was only partially visible, the line of her back, the lift of her arm—it captured perfectly the joy she felt when approaching a new work. It was amazing how complete a rendition it was, using so few lines and only pencil. She held the little picture carefully, turned it over.

It was not signed, not really, but the handwriting was unmistakable. There was only one word, and it wasn't "good-bye."

_Thanks_.

"Ooh! Ms. Denslow! Who drew this picture of you?" asked a student, her eager hand reaching out to touch. She hadn't been a student long enough to know not to touch art, so Ms. Denslow moved the picture quickly and carefully out of reach, but turned it so the young woman could see it better.

"A student of mine," said Ms. Denslow. "A long time ago."

"I can tell," said the girl. "You look a lot older now."

"Thank you, dear," Ms. Denslow murmured, and smiled. Tact usually didn't hit until closer to graduation.

"What happened to her?"

"It was a him, a boy. His name was Danny."

"Whatever happened to him?"

She was thoughtful, replacing the picture where it belonged. "I'm afraid I don't know," she said slowly. "But whatever happened, I'm sure it involved art."

The student giggled, a hand over her braces. "Maybe he's a famous art thief!" she said.

Ms. Denslow started to object, then thought about the painting that had so mysteriously disappeared, and the drawing that had also mysteriously appeared. She smiled, somehow liking the thought. "Could be," she said. "You never can tell."


End file.
